


One Night

by reapertownusa



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bondage, Handcuffs, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-28
Updated: 2011-10-28
Packaged: 2017-11-26 18:41:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/653249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reapertownusa/pseuds/reapertownusa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With only three weeks left to live and all roads leading to hell, Dean is on the edge of surrender when he finds unexpected help on a solo hunt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One Night

**Author's Note:**

> Season 3 AU. Written for spnraritiesfest for tringic off the prompt It's a cat and mouse game and requests for banter, snark, rivals becoming lovers and everyday activities/DIY.

Dean tried to feel the worn leather of the steering wheel gripped beneath his fingers. He yearned to lose himself in the blast of cool night air rushing through the open window. His ears strained to hear the bass of ‘Thunderstruck’ pounding through the speakers and drowning out the growling purr of the Impala’s engine.

A tickle in the back of his mind warned to watch the road for deer that he wouldn’t be able to stop in time for anyway. He tried to forget the half empty bottle of Jack sloshing in the seat beside him where his brother should be sitting.

Tried, but failed. He always failed.

He couldn’t feel, hear, see or give a damn. Without Sam and Bobby hovering over him, he didn’t have to keep pretending he could.

His jaw hurt. He couldn’t unclench his teeth and the tension was creeping into his skull. Frustration clouded his view of the road ahead.

He should be back at Bobby’s beating the shit out of his stubborn as hell little brother.

There were three perfectly good weeks and three days left, but who was counting? Sam obviously was.

Dean had done everything short of tying his brother to a chair to stop him from hunting for a way out of this deal. Sam refused to let it go - refused to let him go. Dean had tried to reason with Bobby but that hadn't helped either.

Bobby was supposed to the be the practical one, but the guy didn't know enough to just slap Sam up side the head and tell him he was fighting a lost cause.

Dad had been smart to avoid all this crap between the deal and the Pit. Dean shouldn’t have been bartering for a decade. He should have begged that bitch to rip out his soul on the spot.

But he’d had to see Sam alive – he’d had to know that he’d saved his brother. Now that stupid, selfish need might be the death of Sam and, at this rate, his brother wouldn’t be the only casualty.

There were monsters that needed putting down and instead Sam wanted to sacrifice innocent lives to try saving what was already lost. It was stupid and pointless and Dean had said as much. He’d said a lot of things.

Dean maybe hadn’t been entirely sober when he’d made his point and stormed out. The bottle keeping him company hadn’t sobered him up any along the way.

Now he was halfway between nowhere and hell and he wasn’t alone. 

He’d picked up a tail a few towns back. It wasn’t like there were side streets for him to swerve onto. He was barreling down a highway that wasn’t any bigger than most back roads with nothing but a winding two lane road and towering trees to breakup the darkness.

It was impossible that he’d lost the other car, but more than possible that he’d only imagined it having anything to do with him. There were no turn-offs so anyone going down this stretch would by default have to follow him.

He could tell himself it was nothing, but even wasted his hunter instincts were so innate that the hair at the back of his neck stood on end, his heart beat just a little faster in his chest.

Dean was ready for a fight.

The road made a dramatic slope down a large hill and the car that had been following at a suspicious distance became visible in the rearview mirror.

It was the same silver Ford Taurus he’d seen at the gas station with government plates.

The night’s air whipped through the Impala, drying his eyes and chilling his skin. Dean didn’t ease up on the gas despite the down slope.

His suspicion was confirmed when the other vehicle still began to close the distance. He waited until the waves of the terrain again hid the lights from the other car and the road swerved so that the forest served as further cover.

Dean’s hands moved quickly over the wheel, tires squealing and the back end of the Impala swinging out. It took both lanes of the highway for him to make the sharp, high-speed turn and he only barely managed to avoid the ditch overgrown with shrubs.

His lead foot eased when he spotted a way off the highway. It wasn’t quite a road that he skidded onto, but that just made it all the more unlikely someone would think to follow. Tomorrow he’d sober up enough to kick his own ass for branches that gouged against the side panels of his baby as she tore through the overgrown trail. Tonight, he barely noticed them.

When he was far enough in to hide the glint of the Impala from passing headlights, Dean cut the engine. Silent darkness immediately swallowed him.

The moon was out and mostly full, but beneath the trees in the dense woods it was black as tar with only slits of silver piercing through tight openings in the canopy. With his eyes useless, his ears strained.

Air held still in his lungs as he listened for the other car. It zipped by and Dean released his breath.

He blindly reached into the seat beside him, fumbled in the dark until his fingers brushed over cool glass. He twisted off the cap and took a gulp, relishing the burn down his throat. It wasn’t enough to warm him. There wasn’t enough alcohol in the world to make him numb enough to clear away everything he needed to forget.

His hand fumbled to roll up the window against the coldness and the rustling sounds of things in the dark. He was tried of always being in the dark.

Dean leaned back in the seat and tried not to think about the minutes ticking away as he waited until he was sure that the other car had gone on its merry way. He screwed the cap back on the bottle, tossing it aside and finding the key in the ignition.

When he turned the key, the headlights flared on, but there was no accompanying roar of the engine. A couple more turns of the key and still the only sound was the hooting of some smart ass owl.

“Son of a bitch.”

He stopped just short of kicking the wheel well. It wasn’t his baby’s fault that he was an idiot.

Dean hadn’t taken Sam to Bobby because he wanted his brother going off on yet another pointless research tangent. The Impala’s starter had been acting up and he’d gone there for a replacement.

The new starter was sitting on the floor in front of the passenger seat where it wasn’t doing any good. Having a replacement wasn’t worth crap until the sun came out. Replacing the thing was a two hand job and would be too much of a bitch to manage in the dark without Sam to hold the flashlight.

Dean collapsed back against the seat, eyes slipping closed.

In three weeks he wouldn’t have to worry about busted starter motors. He could forget about the feel of grime and grease, the heft of a pistol in his hand, the sweet taste of cherry pie and the warmth of his brother sitting at his side.

Fuck the damn pity party.

Dean shoved open the car door. It was a good thing he hadn’t bothered to put on a seatbelt because he probably wouldn’t have had the coordination to unhook it.

He left the useless key in the ignition and dug under his seat to grab a flashlight, squinting against the light that cut through the darkness before pulling the pistol from his waistband.

With the flashlight held between his thighs, he slid out the gun’s clip. It was loaded with enough silver bullets that he had no right to call himself a hunter if he couldn’t take a shifter down with them.

If his sense of direction was even half on track, he was only a mile or so off from the research cabin that he was willing to bet this thing was holed up in. Shifters tended to be loners so he should be able to take it. Worst case scenario, he’d be short three miserable weeks. Better to go out swinging than wait for the hellhounds to come over for dinner.

If he was wrong, and the shifter wasn’t here, at least wandering through the woods for a couple hours would give him something to do while he waited for morning. He sure as hell wasn’t going to sleep.

Dean tucked his gun back beneath his shirt and shut the door with a creak that sounded deafening in the void of night. The undergrowth of the forest was thick, thick enough that the mile could’ve turned into a night’s worth of hiking. Instead, he cut back to the highway.

He walked along the narrow shoulder, not bothering to turn on the flashlight. In the clearing of the trees, the moon lent enough light for him to see the road well enough to stay out of the water-filled ditch. Hopefully a car didn’t come because his plan of hopping over the ditch to hide in the brush would probably just end in him falling face down in the ditch and drowning.

When he reached the turnoff for the research station, he left behind the rough cement that he’d been dragging his boots over and turned onto a dirt road where he actually had to pick up his feet to stop from kicking rocks around.

His hand scrubbed over his face to try to clear his head. It didn’t work.

A crackle of twigs in the near distance froze him in place. Dean immediately skittered for cover, hunkering down out of the moonlight and pulling out his gun. He scanned the shadows for movement.

He thought he was hiding from a raccoon until he heard the hammer of a gun click. Neither those mean little bastard raccoons nor shapeshifters needed guns.

"FBI! Hands where I can see them."

Dean was about to let loose some more expletives when he recognized the voice. His eyes narrowed as he held his unarmed hand partially raised. "Oh, come on. Seriously?"

Henricksen. He was in the middle of nowhere, thinking he was surrounded by nothing but coyotes and one call of the wild shifter, and the damn FBI agent was standing across the trail.

Visually, his mind didn’t register Henricksen at first. It was only the voice that gave him away. The man was dressed casually, no uptight suit - just a pair of jeans, a jacket and hiking boots. Even the gun didn’t look government issued.

Right now, Henricksen looked more like a park ranger than an FBI agent. It didn’t make his face any less smug.

“What the hell are you waiting for?” Henricksen asked. “You don’t think I’d love to shoot you? Just give me an excuse, Dean.”

Dean didn’t respond, only listened. He wasn’t hearing a horde of FBI agents waiting in the shadows to descend upon him and Henricksen was keeping his distance, being cautious. The agent was here alone. The son of a bitch was as stupid as Dean was.

Still, one thought overwhelmed every ounce of commonsense in Dean’s mind. He wasn’t spending his last weeks in supermax.

Springing to his feet, Dean dodged back behind the nearest tree, crashing through the underbrush as he weaved through the woods. The supple branches whipped back, stinging against his face and bare arms. Next time he stormed out on his brother he needed to remember to grab his jacket.

Behind him, Henricksen called out, “Wrong move, Winchester!”

Actually, it was his only move aside from just shooting the agent’s ass and even he wasn’t that far gone.

The woods were disorienting and he had a good enough chance of losing the guy without anyone having to get hurt. By the time reinforcements did arrive, Dean would be sober enough to have already found his way back out of here.

What Dean hadn’t anticipated was how light on his feet Henricksen was. Dean had hit a clear patch and was at a flat out sprint, but he could still hear the agent right behind him even as Dean’s lungs began to burn and his legs began to protest the strain.

Dean skidded over a mat of wet leaves, only just avoiding smashing straight into a tall, chain link fence. The fence clanged as he caught himself on it, fingers gripping the frigid metal as he turned his head to find that the fence ran as far as he could see in either direction.

It was the park boundary. The research station was part of some game park. It was just the place for a shifter to hide with a constant stream of fresh tourists to snack on. The thing could have shifted into a damn antelope as far as Dean knew, which right now, wasn’t his biggest problem.

He shoved his gun back into his waistband and sloppily clamored up and over the chain link fence, nearly falling over the other side, hitting the ground hard enough to stun him. His eyes opened to see the glint of his gun where it had fallen from his pants on the opposite side of the fence from him.

"Awesome," Dean huffed.

His feet weren’t yet beneath him when he again heard Henricksen. "No more running," the agent said.

The voice was too close to have come from the other side of the fence. Dean got that Henricksen was a quick thinker, but he hadn’t pegged the guy for being so damn spry. Before Dean could stand, he felt the barrel of a gun jam against the base of his head.

Dean held his hands up in surrender as he glared at the ground beneath his feet. "Don't you have actual criminals in places with actual people that you should be taking care of?"

“Get up, slow. One wrong twitch and no one will have to bother with a trial. Either way, I’m finally going to get to use all those vacation days I’ve been saving up while hunting you down.”

Dean put his hands behind his head as he rose to his feet, trying not to look as unsteady as he felt. "How about I just buy you a ticket to Disneyland and we skip the part where you get your sorry ass killed trying to arrest an innocent man?"

"Innocent?” Henricksen chuckled to himself. “That’s good, I like that. After all day tracking you - after months of looking at nothing other than pictures of your cocky face - I need a good laugh. But if I were you, I'd drop the threats."

"Oh, I’m not the one that’s gonna kill you. You just walked your ass into a-"

"Wait, let me guess - a monsters hunt,” Henricksen said. “I didn't interrupt your search for big foot, did I?"

"Big foot doesn't exist, you dumb ass. But there really is a shifter out here and it's really gonna kill a lot of innocent people if you don't let me do my job."

"A shifter...shapeshifter like in Saint Louis? Right."

Dean sneered at the cocky drift in the agent’s tone. "It’s fucking hilarious until it's your neck it's breaking."

“That would be real convenient for you, wouldn’t it?”

Slowly, Dean turned to face Henricksen. The guy was standing as if he was sure he had the upper hand. If Dean picked the right moment, he could get the gun away from the agent. If it was anyone else, Dean would have already made his move, but he had no doubt that Henricksen really would love to shoot him.

“If I wanted you dead, I wouldn't need a shapeshifter to do it. I'm trying to save people.”

“So I’ve heard.” To Dean’s surprise, Henricksen lowered the gun. “We need to talk.”

Dean squared his shoulders. He should take this moment to fight, but there was enough alcohol in his system that his vision wasn’t as clear as it could be, his action sloppier than they should be. He didn’t register the cuffs in the agent’s hands until one of them was clamped onto his wrist.

He twisted away, slamming a fist into the agent’s face. He didn’t see the follow-up strike, but he sure as hell felt the bruising knuckle split the skin of his cheek. Dean doubled over as the agent grabbed his shoulders and brought a knee up into his gut.

Dean was swung around and thrown back against the fence. His head didn’t stop spinning until after the second cuff was closed around his other wrist, the chain between them looped through a seam in the fence over Dean’s head.

Henricksen smirked coldly. "Where's Sam?"

"Waiting behind a tree to take you out," Dean replied, tensing as the agent stepped closer.

"Is that so? I’ve been following you for hours. You came here alone, didn’t you?"

Dean tugged futilely at the cuffs then let his shoulders slump. This was so not how he wanted to spend the last of his time on earth. His eyes wandered around for something useful before he pressed his lips thin and stared back at Henricksen.

"Do you really think I'd be that stupid?" Dean asked.

"Stupid? No. Cocky? Absolutely. So do I need to leave you chained here while I scour the woods or are we alone?"

The night air made him shiver where his fussing had rode up his t-shirt, leaving the rough points of the fence to scratch the bare skin of his back. Dean’s squirming must have caught the agent’s attention because the man stepped forward to pull Dean’s shirt back down. This time, it was the heat of the agent’s fingers against his skin that rocked a shiver through Dean’s body.

"If not for the fact that you're a raging psychopath, you wouldn’t be a bad guy," Henricksen remarked as he leaned back against the fence beside Dean.

"If you weren't a full of yourself FBI agent with his head on backwards...well, you’d still be a dick."

Henricksen moved away from the fence to stand again in front of Dean, leaning in close. Close enough that Dean’s breath froze in his lungs. The gun was still clutched in the agent’s hands, but it was more casual than aimed, more like a natural extension of the man’s hand.

Dean’s eyes darted between the playful sparkle in Henricksen’s eyes and the casual twirling of the gun. Metal clanged as Dean twisted against the handcuffs, ignoring the pinch of his skin.

Henricksen slammed his hands on the fence at either side of Dean’s aching head. “Let’s be honest here,” the agent said.

“Um okay. So you caught me for a game of Truth or Dare?” Dean gave an annoyed roll of his eyes to hide his nerves. “Dare.”

“Okay.” There was amusement in Henricksen’s tone, the gun now hanging at his side. “I dare you to slip those cuffs with that smart mouth of yours.”

Dean blinked when Henricksen shoved the gun into his pocket only to pull out a hunting knife in its place. Unease crept into Dean’s voice. “What’re you doing?”

“I know what you are, Dean. You're a hunter. I can respect that." As Henricksen spoke, the tip of the knife was placed against Dean’s collarbone. “But, I have my own survival to look out for.”

“You’re one crazy son of a bitch.”

Dean kicked out his legs as he felt the edge of the knife settle in the crook of his jaw beside his ear. The knife blade sliced into his skin before falling to the ground as Henricksen stumbled backwards.

“FBI! Hands where I can see them.”

Dean looked away from the agent that had fallen in front of him just long enough to look over his shoulder. There was another agent, this one in a suit, on the other side of the chain link with his gun leveled at them. He wouldn’t have blinked twice at the arrival of reinforcements if they weren’t both the same agent.

Just what he needed - another Henricksen stalking his ass across the country.

The Henricksen in front of him dropped the act, the smug turning to rage as he leapt back to his feet, coming at Dean with the knife raised. Dean swung out of the way, just avoiding getting stuck in the gut. Instead, the knife jammed in the chain link of the fence.

Dean snapped his body to the side to break the shifter’s grip on the handle. It abandoned the knife only to throw him another punch, this time not holding back.

His head was knocked to the side, cheek slamming against metal. As he recovered, he caught the other Henricksen’s face.

The look of shock was there, but it wasn’t the blank stupor Dean often saw on the face of those for the first time faced with the supernatural. It was calculating like the agent was taking in the facts and trying to make sense of them even though they were senseless. Maybe they had half a chance of surviving this after all.

"Grab my gun and shoot it!" Dean shouted at Henricksen, nodding to the ground near the fence.

Henricksen’s own gun was raised and cocked. Dean kicked his foot back against the fence to get the agent’s attention. "Not yours! It's gotta be mine."

The split second of skepticism in the agent’s eyes gave way to action. Henricksen dove for the gun as the shifter also scampered back over the fence towards it. The two of them tumbled to the ground in a flurry of movement that Dean could only just make out in the dark, but there was no question that Henricksen was holding his own because Dean couldn't tell by the moves which one was which.

A shot rang out. Dean could only barely see the silhouette of the man who remained standing. The guy wiped his brow and stood straight, tilting his head down at the body at his feet. There was a shake of his head, a glance towards Dean and then the man kneeled down to flip over the body.

By the string of expletives that came from the man’s mouth, Dean had no doubt he was looking at the real Henricksen. He sagged back against the fence, actually relieved to see the pain in the ass agent still standing.

Dean’s blood had spilled far enough down his neck to soak into the collar of his shirt by the time Henricksen walked up to the fence and stared at Dean through it. The man was still holding his gun ready like Dean was seriously some kind of threat here, but the guy had just been attacked by himself so the caution was understandable.

Henricksen looked back at the fallen body and then narrowed his eyes on Dean. "You want to explain to me what the hell just happened. Who is that?"

Dean’s neck was cramping from trying to look behind him. He focused his eyes ahead before answering, “What.”

"Come again?"

"What was that," Dean corrected.

"Oh, no. I don't know what kind of trick you just pulled, but you aren't starting in on that monster crap. You did this. Everywhere you go crazy happens."

"More like I go where the crazy is. Just because I'm stupid enough to run into a burning building doesn't mean I set the fire."

Dean didn’t care enough to look to gauge the man’s expression. He let the silence hang until Henricksen broke it again.

"Okay, so let's pretend for thirty seconds that you're not a complete nutcase and I didn't just eat one of your magic mushrooms. How are you going to explain that?" he asked, waving the gun in the direction of the shifter’s body.

"Shapeshifter," Dean said.

"Like St. Louis? And Milwaukee? Shapeshifters there too, right?" The tone was skeptical, but surprisingly devoid of seeping sarcasm.

Dean shrugged against the restraints. "Believe it or don’t. I don’t give a rat’s ass."

He heard the click of Henricksen’s gun being disarmed and shot a look over his shoulder. “You actually believe me?”

“Maybe I do, maybe I don’t, but I can see myself lying on the ground over there and I don’t exactly got a lot of other explanations. Is that what happened in St. Louise – your ‘death’?”

“For a fed, you’re not totally stupid.”

“You might not be crazy, but you’re still a smart ass.” Henricksen put his hands on the fence, examining the perimeter. “How do I get around this thing?”

“Up and over.”

“It’s an eight foot fence.” Henricksen glared at him. “What do I look like? A damn spider monkey?”

“Then just undo the cuffs, I’ll come over.”

Henricksen snorted. “Right.”

“You can just shoot me if I try to run.”

The night again fell quiet as Henricksen thought it over. Dean jumped when he felt a finger brush his neck through the fence.

“Is this all your blood?”

Dean absently glanced down to try to see the blood he could feel warming his neck. However much was there wasn’t much in his book, but even working human driven crime scenes, Henricksen would have a different definition than Dean for what qualified as a large quantity of blood loss.

“Yeah, I guess.”

“Try to press your wrists towards the fence.”

Following Henricksen’s direction, Dean manipulated his wrists until the agent managed to slip the cuff key into the locks through the fence and unfasten them. Dean took a step away, flexing his shoulders before turning back towards the fence. It did look taller this time around with the adrenaline gone and the energy sapped from his muscles.

It took him two tries before he basically fell on top of Henricksen who, for some reason, had bothered to ease his fall. Henricksen helped Dean to sit, leaning him back against the fence and tipping his head to the side to shine a flashlight at the cut on his neck.

“Where’s your brother?” Henricksen asked as he pulled something from his jacket pocket.

“Is that a handkerchief?” Dean asked with a raised brow.

Henricksen shoved Dean’s head further to the side and pressed the fabric over the wound. Dean hissed at stinging contact, but didn’t pull away.

“You two have a fight?” Henricksen asked.

Dean put his hand over Henricksen’s, taking away the cloth and holding it himself. “Aren’t you worried about the dead you?”

“Should I be?” Henricksen rocked back where he crouched and looked towards the body. “He looks pretty damn dead to me. What’s in the gun?”

“Silver.” Dean grabbed the fence and used it to pull himself up. “We still gotta bury or burn the body unless you have back taxes that need avoiding.”

Henricksen put a hand out to steady him. “The grave desecrations, the mutilations...”

“How many ways can I say I’m not evil?” Dean walked away from Henricksen, checking the body before looking back through the woods. “Unless you keep your shovel under your handkerchiefs, we need to get back to my car.” Dean turned towards the agent. “You gonna help or are you just gonna stand there with your mouth hanging open?”

“Is taking care of the bodies usually Sam’s job?”

Dean surged forward, stopping inches from Henricksen’s face. To his credit, the man didn’t flinch.

“You mention my brother one more time and I’m gonna punch you. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” He took a breath and stepped away. “What do you care anyway?”

“You going to punch me if I tell you?”

“Maybe,” Dean turned his back on Henricksen and headed towards the trail, leaving it open for the agent to follow him or not. “Talk at your own risk.”

“It doesn’t take a brain surgeon,” Henricksen replied, his voice coming not far from behind Dean. “All this time I’ve been tracking you, not once have you two been separate. Now you’re alone. Did something happen to him?”

Dean gritted his teeth, but forced an answer to wipe the question from the air. “He’s just got different priorities.”

“He’s too busy to bother saving lives?” There was nothing but a hint of disbelief to the question, the damn agent was way too perceptive.

“More like he’s stuck on saving just one.”

“And which one is that?” Henricksen asked.

“Doesn’t matter. He’s wasting his time.”

“He’s trying to save you.”

It wasn’t a question and Dean bristled at the statement. “Now you’re just getting annoying.”

He let the next branch he pushed aside fling back towards Henricksen, who too easily dodged it without comment. Their footsteps were the only thing to break the silence by the time they made it back to the empty stretch of highway.

~~~

Victor couldn’t see what Dean was doing. It wouldn’t have made any more sense if he could. He didn’t know the first thing about cars.

These days, he drove whatever vehicle he was given and most were new enough not to need work. If they did, he’d just dropped them at the shop.

Watching Dean, it was obvious that this wasn’t something Dean had taken up out of necessity when he’d become a wanted fugitive. It was something he did without thought. The man was wasted, but didn’t fumble a single bolt. Victor was sure that Dean could have done the repair in his sleep.

All Victor did was what Dean told him, moving the light as directed, passing him tools and holding things as needed. Dean spent most of time hunched over the hood occasionally muttering to himself while distantly answering Victor’s questions.

When Dean again stood, there were smudges of grease intermingled with the dried blood on his face. Dean wiped his brow, avoiding the smears like he knew they were there but didn’t care.

“So you ready to run for the hills?” Dean asked.

Before Dean had answered a single question, he’d handed Victor a bottle of whiskey and told him he was going to need it. He hadn’t been wrong, but at the same time, it all made a weird sort of sense. Not to mention, it had all been second to burying his own body.

Victor took another swig of the nearly empty bottle before setting it aside on the hood Dean had just slammed closed. He loosened the tie at his neck and sat back against the car.

"I got no damn clue what to think. I mean...shapeshifters? Demons? You not being a homicidal psycho - it's a hell of a lot to swallow in one night."

"Well, you not being a stick up your ass fed is a lot for me to take in so I guess we're even."

Dean also leaned back against the car. He crossed his arms in a mirror image of Victor, took in a deep breath and stared at the small piece of the sky visible through the trees.

"You’re really dying?" Victor asked.

“It’s about time, I guess. Never really thought I was going make it this long anyway.”

It sounded like something someone would say to throw off the question, but there was sincerity in Dean’s eyes and resignation in his tone. There was also something else that declared it only a half truth.

“So it’s not dying – it’s just the hell thing?”

Dean smiled wryly. “Yeah, that’s all.”

“Any chance your brother can find a way out of it?”

“Not without throwing himself down the crapper and I’m not gonna let that happen.” Dean looked back at him. “I’m out of whiskey. I’m done talking. You can get back to whatever it is you used to do before you got your crush on me.”

Victor wasn’t sure of much right now, but he was sure there was no way that he could just go back to his old life. Maybe nothing had changed for Dean, but everything had changed for Victor.

“And what are you going to do?” Victor asked.

Dean rubbed his hand over the bandage at his neck before dropping it back to his lap. “I just need some time to think. Don’t worry, I’m not gonna off myself. There’s not enough time left to bother.”

“The last thing you need is any more time to think. You’re drunk.”

Dean looked down at the empty bottle before tossing it to the ground. “Yeah, usually.”

“And you’ve lost a lot of blood.”

“Must be a day ending in ‘y’.” Dean looked at Victor out of the corner of his eye. “You got a point coming?”

“I’m not leaving you here alone. Besides, I’m the one that needs time to think.”

“Can’t you do that in your own car?” Dean asked.

“Do you want me to?”

Dean reclined to lay over the hood. It was an easy motion for him, even as drunk as he was, Dean obviously knew exactly where his head would end up. Victor was starting to get why Dean wouldn’t leave the car overnight.

“I think the universe has made it clear that it doesn’t give a crap about what I want.” Dean laced his fingers behind his head and kept his eyes directed towards the sky, which had grown even darker with clouds moving in to mask the moon. “And no.”

Victor left it at that. It was more than obvious that Dean wasn’t the sort to accept charity, or even simple help. Dean was just about everything aside from what Victor had thought.

“I’ve spent the last year hunting you,” Victor said.

“Congratulations,” Dean deadpanned. “You got me.”

“And in that time, how many shapeshifters did you take down?”

“Shapeshifters? Not many. They’re pretty good at hiding – you know with the whole shapeshifting thing. It was more the evil spirits and the demons and the werewolves and the ghouls...oh, and the vampires.”

Victor shook his head. It was worse than just having hunted the wrong guy. This wasn’t just an innocent man. He was a man who had devoted his life to saving the innocent.

Dean’s eyes were far away as Victor watched him. When he was at the top of his game, Dean was larger than life. In Victor’s mind he was a super villain - evil incarnate. On a car’s hood, face bloody and bruised, surrounded by woods and silence, he was smaller. 

Not in any way diminished, just human. A human who looked like he literally carried the weight of the world and was ready to let it go. Someone who was tired of fighting but who didn’t know any other way. 

Victor didn’t know much about Dean’s world, wasn’t sure that he wanted to, but he knew if this man was destined for hell then that sense of justice that Victor prided over all else was the biggest load of crap in the history of crap.

“Is there anything I can do?” Victor asked.

“For starters, you can stop staring at me like that. I’m sick and tired of everyone feeling sorry for me.”

“I don’t feel sorry for you, Dean, and it doesn’t matter what some demon said, you’re not gonna spend eternity in hell.”

“Uh huh. I’m sure my fairy godmother will sweep in at midnight and break the deal. I’ve made my choice. It should’ve been me all along.”

Victor didn’t know what that meant and he didn’t ask because it didn’t matter. He knew one thing well enough. “Hell doesn’t want you and it couldn’t hold you. Believe me, I have enough experience with you to know.”

Something flickered in Dean’s eyes before he closed them. “I don’t wanna die.”

It was obvious that Dean didn’t plan on saying anything more and somehow he didn’t need to. Dean pulled the jacket Victor had leant him tighter around his neck. A moment later, Victor felt the first raindrop hit his head.

Dean didn’t move to get up, even as the splattering of droplets grew steadier. He just stayed laying there with his eyes closed.

Victor didn’t doubt that in his current state, Dean would lay in the rain all night. That was one of the many reasons he hadn’t left the man alone. He slapped Dean’s shoulder.

Dean jerked, looking momentarily disoriented before sitting up. He ran his hand over the water droplets on the hood as if he hadn’t previously noticed them then slid off the car onto his feet.

“I guess it’s time to move the party inside,” Dean said as he dried his hand on his jeans.

Dean opened the driver’s door and leaned in to flick on the dome light, a burst of brightness against the nearly blinding black.

There was something hesitant in his movements as he turned back towards Victor. In that silent question was also Victor’s answer of what he could do for this man.

Victor rubbed his beard as his eyes took in Dean’s reserved posture. "So this thing killing you – it’s not contagious?"

Dean chuckled. The sound was surprisingly warm. “If that’s the best pickup line you got then it’s no wonder you have to stalk people for a living.”

He wasn’t sure which of them had made the first move. Victor’s next conscious thought was on top of Dean on the back bench with the door shut against the rain, which now pounded on the roof.

Both their jackets were gone, as was Dean’s bloodied shirt. Dean had already kicked off his boots and didn’t protest as Victor worked the leather of Dean’s belt free from its buckle.

With hurried hands, Dean pushed the denim and cotton layers away, using his feet to kick them off his ankles. Despite Dean’s rush, he still looked uneasy. Enough so that Victor worried that Dean’s jittery movements might be anxiousness, not enthusiasm.

"This your first time?" Henricksen asked.

Dean twisted so he was lying on his stomach. He reached his hand beneath the driver’s seat, digging around for a moment before pulling out a bottle of lube and shooting a look over his shoulder at Victor.

"You really think I'd give my ass virginity to you?”

Victor smirked and took the bottle from him while Dean stretched over the leather of the car they were crammed into the back of.

It was actually a good car for this and Dean's ease at positioning himself and convenient access to lube and condoms made one thing clear. He was on Dean’s home turf and that wasn't fair.

"Turn over," Victor said.

"Why?" Dean asked into the seat.

"So I can see your face."

"Who says I wanna see your face?" Dean asked.

"Who says I'm asking?"

In one, quick movement, Victor gripped Dean's shoulders and flipped him over. Dean made a disgruntle sound, but didn't stop him and Victor knew he could. Dean could snap his wrist. He could kill him.

Theoretically, Dean wasn't the murderer Victor had pegged him for, but he was a hunter. He hadn’t killed a few dozen people. He killed monsters every single night. 

When Dean looked up, Victor knew why he'd been hiding his face. Everything was there on display – every doubt and need shining up at Victor through startlingly green eyes. Some mix of surrender, alcohol and exhaustion had torn down Dean’s guards. 

Victor leaned over on the seat, digging through the pile of clothes on the floor until he found his jacket. He came back up with handcuffs dangling from his fingers.

He’d never used them for anything other than arrests, but they were familiar and carried an implied power that they both needed right now. It was something physical to tell Dean that in this moment the weight wasn’t his to carry and to let Victor pretend he had some level of control over the situation.

"You got me naked just to arrest me?" Dean asked. "Or is this the lead in to a bad strip search joke?"

Despite the snark, Dean raised his arms over his head, somehow knowing what Victor wanted and at that Victor nearly laughed. He'd thought he was pushing Dean to the edge of his limits when, in reality, Dean looked far more at ease than Victor felt.

The cuffs clicked soundly over one of Dean’s wrists. Where Victor’s legs straddled Dean, he felt a moment of tightness knot Dean’s body before his muscles again relaxed. Somehow, even lying naked and restrained beneath Victor, Dean still held all the cards.

Victor leaned over him to lace the cuff’s chain through the handle of the door. It was the first real sign of tension he’d seen in Dean.

"Don't you hurt my car," Dean warned as Victor snapped closed the other cuff around Dean’s wrist.

"I guess you better not pull too hard."

Victor cut off further protest by sliding a slicked finger inside of Dean. It was the first thing Victor had found that successfully shut the man up.

Dean’s muscles contracted tight around his finger before Dean spread himself as far as the constraints of the seat would allow, going beyond relaxing to impatiently begging Victor in.

“You gonna spend all night fingering me or do you got something to back it up?” Dean goaded.

His quick breaths betrayed his supposed boredom and Victor had no intention of hurrying this along. As long as Dean was beneath him, as long as his focus was on Victor’s touch, he couldn’t be in whatever screwed up headspace that was trying to claim him.

When Victor did move on, Dean shifted his hips to make access easer. The corner of Victor’s lips turned up at the surprisingly soft sounds Dean made. Victor’s amusement was soon forgotten as he became lost in the tight heat. He stayed with himself enough to let Dean be the one to set the pace as he took in Victor’s cock.

Dean closed his eyes, no doubt pretending that someone else was over him and if that was what Dean needed that was fine by Victor. He was getting what he wanted regardless.

He was surprised a moment later when Dean opened his eyes to lock his gaze with Victor’s. His fried nerves might be overwhelmed by the sensations, but Dean wasn't avoiding the sight of him.

Victor’s thrusts were gentle, his movements restrained by uncertainty. He remained aware of every moan Dean made to confirm they were sounds of pleasure. By the dazed look in Dean’s eyes, Victor was skeptical that Dean would stop him even if he was hurting him.

His cautious movements weren’t enough for Dean, who wrapped his legs around Victor’s back, pulling him further in and thrusting his hips up as far as the restraint of the cuffs would allow to drive Victor deeper inside him. The movements were desperate and Victor’s hands gripped Dean’s hips in response to the naked need screaming in Dean’s eyes, straining every line of his body.

Dean tilted his head back, arching up into Victor and it was enough to push him over the edge. His own breaths came as pants as the waves of release clung to him. Even as he pulled out, his body still buzzed and beneath him, Dean twitched. 

Dean’s cock lay rigid over his stomach, out of Dean’s reach, but right where Victor wanted it. With calculating movements, Victor took it into his hand. He rubbed his thumb over the moistened head, chuckling at the curses that spilled from Dean’s lips as he ran his slicked hand down the erect shaft, giving a few, hard jerks.

A strangled protest choked in Dean’s throat as Victor let Dean’s cock fall back to his tensed belly. Before Dean could complain, Victor crawled up further on the seat, resting his knees on either side of Dean’s chest.

Satisfaction swelled in him at the questioning look in Dean’s eyes. He’d get the upper hand yet.

While he’d been inside of Dean, he’d also opened himself up and now slid down easily over the stiffness of Dean’s cock. Dean jerked in surprise a moment before his eyes slipped close. Victor settled down over Dean, clenching around him. He drank in the sight as bliss washed away any residual tension in the lines of Dean’s face.

His eyes were drawn down to the skin of Dean’s chest, his fingers tracing the maze of scars that littered his skin. This wasn’t the body of someone who had been in a few fights, but of someone who had lived life fighting for every last minute.

Victor couldn’t give Dean the last year back and he couldn’t give him next year, but he could give him this one night.


End file.
